Sandstone

There is nothing better than a cold beer after walking and walking and walking… an old fashioned pub… an old fashioned crowd. They may have tried ‘yuppifying’ the pub, but the drinkers are pretty much locals. A couple of Irish as well, but old school drinkers.

What happens to the locals when everything out-prices you? It’s happened in pretty much every inner city and inner west suburb, but places like the Rocks and Balmain, where all corner stores are now boutique and all restaurants are top end.

Yet still, these suburbs are bordered by the industrial shadow of the waterfront. The Patricks sign, the building at the entrance, a roof covered in large stones, which it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume are a legacy of the waterfront dispute that broke my heart; we are no longer the society I grew up loving.

This pub is perfect. Large windows overlooking the road so I can watch the world go by. Live music. Quiet crowd. Barmaid who calls me mate (and I called her mate in return!)

Bikes go by, a nice curve to the corner that they can accelerate through. And groups of tourists walk by, just not quite sure where they want to be next.

Shoeless, two women walk in, well dressed, strappy high heels in hand. Where fashion doesn’t meet function. Of course, I’m sitting here in my sensible boots, quite sure of the blister that has built up on my foot for all that walking earlier.

The Rocks is built on Sandstone. Or with Sandstone. It is something that has been constant in my life, significant. My grandparent’s home was built with it. The city I was raised in was built with it. Everywhere I look now, I see the rough quality, golden, texture. I can close my eyes and imagine the feel of that texture running coarse under my fingers.